Then again, Marshall told himself, maybe the guy had a point. Look at that old guy at the mall who tried to get to the bag before Marshall could. Could you blame someone for not wanting to put fifty thousand dollars in a garbage bin?
So then maybe it wasn’t a trap. Gaynor was just being cautious. He didn’t want to take any chances that the money would go to the wrong person. It probably wasn’t like he could go out and get another fifty grand just like that. Suppose it was the other way around, Marshall thought. Would he want to dump that kind of cash where any asshole might grab it? Probably not.
The thing was, Marshall was so close to the money he could taste it. He and Sarita were ready to hit the road, to make new lives for themselves. So he wanted to believe Gaynor’s motives were genuine. It wasn’t as though Marshall was really going to call the cops now, and miss out on getting that money.
He’d have to do what Gaynor asked—call him. He reached into his pocket for his cell, and the instant he touched it, it rang, causing him to jump. He looked at the name on the screen—D. STEMPLE—and did not recognize it. No, wait. Wasn’t that the name of the woman who lived in the other side of the house? Mrs. Stemple?
He accepted the call, put the phone to his ear. “Hello?” He could hear a television in the background.
“Marshall?”
It was Sarita. Made sense that if she had to call him, she would ask to use the phone next door. He didn’t have a landline in his apartment, and Sarita had never owned a cell phone.
He could hear a television blaring in the background, and Mrs. Stemple saying, “It’s not long-distance, is it?”
“No,” Sarita told her. Then, to him: “A man was here.”
“What?”
“I have to get out of here. I can’t stay here any longer.”
“What man?”
“First he knocked on the door, asking for you. I hid behind the bed; I didn’t move. He called for you and then I heard him go next door. Where I am now. The lady who lives next to you.”
“Yeah, yeah, I know. I saw her name on the phone.”
“Then he came back, and this time he started calling out for me.”
“Jesus. Was it a cop?”
“I don’t know. He said he wasn’t.”
“That’s just what a cop might say.”
“He said his name was David Harwood, that he needed to talk to me, that he was trying to help out a friend.”
“So what happened then?”
“He gave up,” Sarita said. “I didn’t go to the door. He must have figured no one was here. I heard a car start up, and when I peeked outside, there was no one there. The man was gone, no car.”
“Okay, then. We’re good.”
“I have to get out of here. If that man could figure out I might be here, who else will figure it out? The next time it might really be the police.”
“Just . . . okay, okay. I get that you’re scared; I get that. But just hang in. In another hour or so, everything is going to be okay. You’ll see.”
“You got the money?”
“Not yet. But it’s going to happen.”
“Forget the money. What you’re doing is wrong. You have to—”
“Please just let me do this for you. For us. Trust me. I have to go. I won’t be long.”
Marshall ended the call. He had to get back to Gaynor, find out where he wanted to leave the money. Gaynor answered on the first ring.
“You shouldn’t have done that,” Marshall said. “You shouldn’t have changed the plan. I told you, I’ll go to the police. I will!”
“I’m sorry, I’m sorry, honestly, I am. I just—”
“I’m in charge, okay? I’m the one calling the shots on this.” Marshall tried to keep his voice from shaking.
“I know, I know,” Gaynor said, sounding respectful. “I get that. But I just couldn’t do it. I didn’t think it was safe. I thought, What if someone else is watching and tries to get the money before you do? The mall’s such a public place. A lot of people could see me do that.”
“Okay, fine,” Marshall said. “Let me think of another place where—”
“You don’t have to,” he said. “It’s already taken care of.”
“What?”
“I’ve left it somewhere. Somewhere a lot safer.”
“Whoa, whoa, hang on. You don’t decide where the money goes. I do that. That’s the way it works.”
Had this guy never seen a movie? Did the parents of the kidnapped kid choose where to drop off the money? This was not the way these things were done.
“I’ve never been involved in anything like this before,” Gaynor said. “Is there a fucking playbook I’m supposed to follow? You want the money or not?”
That was the question, wasn’t it? And Marshall knew the answer.
“Okay, fine, where is it?”
“It’s in a mailbox,” Gaynor said.
Marshall thought, Hey, maybe that’s not that bad an idea. Putting the money in a locked box in a post office. There might be video cameras, but he could wear a broad-brimmed hat or something so no one would get a good look at his face. But how did Gaynor plan to get the key to him?
So Marshall Kemp asked.
And Gaynor said, “Not that kind of mailbox. One out in the country, along the side of the road.”
“What?”
“It’s perfect,” Gaynor said. “It’s out in the middle of nowhere. No one’s going to see you pick it up. The mailman doesn’t even go by until the middle of the afternoon.”
“You saying the money is right there, now?”
“It’s there. I put it there myself. Let me give you directions.”
What was he supposed to do? Tell him to forget it? Tell Gaynor to go back and get the money and deliver it someplace else?
No, that’d take too long. If the money was in the mailbox now, Kemper could go get it, race home, grab Sarita’s stuff, throw it in the van, and take off. If he insisted on a third delivery point, he’d be looking at another hour, hour and a half.
“Okay, where’s this mailbox?” Marshall asked.
A country road about five miles out of Promise Falls, Gaynor explained. Out in the middle of farmland and woods. Not even visible, Gaynor said, from any houses. The mailbox was at the end of a small private road that led into forest.
“You know those stick-on, slanted letters you can get at Home Depot?” Gaynor asked. “It says ‘Boone’ on the side, in those letters. The little metal flag will be down. If it’s up, someone might think something was in there.”
“If that money’s not there,” Marshall warned, “I go to the police. I’m not kidding around here.” Trying to sound tough.
He tossed the phone onto the seat next to him and hit the gas.
• • •
Marshall had no problem finding the mailbox, and it was as Gaynor had described it: well isolated, no residence in sight. And hardly any cars on the road. He’d put down the front windows to let the fresh country air blow through.
The first thing Marshall did was some recon. He barely slowed when he saw the mailbox with BOONE on the side. He kept on going to the next road. He figured, if Gaynor had called the cops, there’d be a few cruisers posted nearby. But there were no cop cars within two miles, either way, of the mailbox.
No helicopters in the air, either.
Maybe he hadn’t done anything like this before, but Marshall Kemper was no fool.
He turned the van around and returned to the Boone lane, pulled in. It did indeed lead into thick forest. Someone must have had a home deep in there somewhere. A hunting cabin, maybe.
The trees came right up close to the road.
He stopped with the driver’s door about twenty feet from the mailbox, a rusted aluminum container about ten inches high, two feet deep. Shaped like a barn with a rounded roof. He walked around to the front of it, pulled down the squeaky door, and there, just like Gaynor promised, was a package.
Not an eco bag, but something the size of
a shoe box, wrapped in brown paper, with string tied around it. He worked the package out of the box, closed the door, and went back to his truck.
As he was getting in, he felt something sharp jab him in the neck.
“Jesus!” he shouted, the package falling out of his hands and hitting the gravel road.
For a split second, he wondered whether he’d been stung by a bee. But as soon as he turned his head, he saw that there was someone in the passenger seat.
A man, late fifties, nice suit.
With a syringe in his hand.
“What the— What the fuck did you do?” Marshall said. He slapped his hand on his neck where the needle had gone in.
The man pointed the business end of the syringe at Marshall, using it like a gun to keep him from attacking him.
“Listen to me,” the man said. “You don’t have much time. You’re probably already starting to feel the effects. It works fast.”
The guy was right about that. Marshall felt his arms getting heavy. His head was turning into a bowling ball.
“What did you do?”
“Listen to me,” he said again. “I have a second syringe. It’ll counteract what I just injected into you. Because it’s going to kill you.”
“Like, an anecdote?”
“Yeah, like that. But there isn’t much time.”
“Then get the thecond thyringe!” Christ, it really was fast. His tongue was expanding like a sponge.
“Just as soon as you answer my questions. How did you find out what you know about Gaynor?”
“I justht did, thass all.”
“Was it Sarita?”
Marshall shook his head.
“Clock’s ticking,” the man said.
Marshall nodded. “Yeah.”
“Where is she?”
He tried to shake his head, but it was getting harder and harder to move it. “I’m not delling. . . .”
“Tick-tock.”
“Sheeth at my plathe.”
“Is she there now?”
Another feeble nod.
“Where do you live?”
Marshall tried to form the words, but he was having a hard time getting them out. The man opened the van’s glove box, rooted around until he found the ownership and insurance papers.
“Is this up-to-date?” the man asked. “Groveland Street? Apartment 36A?”
Another nod.
“Good, that’s good. That’s all I wanted to know.”
Struggling with everything he had, Marshall said, “Other thyrinth.”
“There is no other syringe.”
Marshall started to make choking noises, leaned forward, put his head on the top of the steering wheel.
Another man approached the van on the passenger side.
“Did he tell you, Jack?” the second man asked.
“Yeah, he did. I know where Sarita is. How’s the hole coming, Bill?”
Bill Gaynor raised his dirty hands. “I’ve got three fucking blisters.”
Jack Sturgess, tipping his head in Marshall Kemper’s direction, said, “Don’t complain to him.”
FORTY-NINE
MRS. Selfridge came through for Barry Duckworth. An e-mail, which included phone numbers related to Sarita’s use of Mrs. Selfridge’s landline, dropped into his cell shortly after he left Derek Cutter’s place. He tapped on an already highlighted number, hopeful that whoever picked up would prove to be helpful.
He got lucky.
“Davidson House,” a woman said. “How may I connect you?”
“Sorry, wrong number,” he said, and headed straight there.
Shortly after he arrived, he was introduced to a Mrs. Delaney, who told him that yes, Sarita Gomez had worked for them, and no, she was not in today.
“I told all this to the other gentleman,” she said.
“What other gentleman?”
Mrs. Delaney pondered. “I don’t think he ever told me his name. But he said he was conducting an investigation.”
“What did he look like?”
The man Mrs. Delaney described could be David Harwood. It also could have been a number of other people.
“What did you tell him?”
“Well, I told him about Mr. Kemper.”
“Who’s that?”
Mrs. Delaney told him, and provided an address to the detective, just as she had for the other man.
Duckworth left.
• • •
He parked out front of the Kemper address and went to the door. Banged on it good and hard.
“Mr. Kemper! Marshall Kemper! This is the police!”
Duckworth peered through the window, saw no life. He went around to the back of the house and looked through a window there, too. Except for maybe the bathroom, he could see into pretty much all of the apartment.
He went to the front door and banged again, just in case he was being ignored. “If there’s anyone inside, you need to open the door! My name’s Barry Duckworth and I’m a detective with the Promise Falls police!”
Nothing.
He marched over to the other door, banged just as loud. About half a minute later, an elderly woman slowly opened it. The moment he saw her, Duckworth was sorry for hitting the door with quite so much force.
“What’s all the racket?” she asked, a television blaring in the background. It was one of those court shows. That lady judge who tore a strip off everybody.
“I’m with the police, ma’am. Sorry for the noise.”
Duckworth took out his identification and displayed it for the woman. Didn’t flash it, gave her plenty of time to look it over.
“Okay,” she said. “You passed the test.”
“What’s your name, ma’am?”
“Doris Stemple.”
“Are you the landlord, by any chance? Do you rent out the unit next to you here?”
She shook her head. “Landlord’s name is Byron Hinkley. Lives in Albany. Comes by once a week, if I’m lucky, to cut the grass. But if you’ve got a leaky tap or something, don’t hold your breath.”
“I’m looking for Marshall Kemper.”
“Yeah, well, he don’t live here. That’s his place next door.”
“Have you seen him?”
“He in some kind of trouble?”
“I just need to talk to him, Ms. Stemple.”
“Don’t give me that Ms. shit. It’s Mrs. My husband, Arnie Stemple, died fifteen years ago.”
“Mrs. Stemple, have you seen Mr. Kemper lately?”
“Saw him head out early today, I think. At least, I heard his truck take off.”
“Have you seen a woman? Her name would be Sarita. Sarita Gomez. I think she might be with him.”
“The Mexican girl, yeah, I seen her. I think she took off with him.”
“And when was this?”
“Like I said, not long ago. They took off in kind of a hurry.”
“Did they say anything to you?”
“I was only watching from the door here. I doubt they even noticed me.”
“Have you noticed anything unusual next door the last day or so? Odd comings and goings? Strange people dropping by?”
Doris Stemple shook her head. “I won’t lie. I kind of watch what’s going on. But I haven’t seen anything weird lately. There’s a kid up the street, he’s about nine, likes to walk around with his privates hanging out—he’s not right in the head—but other than that, not that much goes on around here.”
Duckworth handed her one of his business cards. “If you see Mr. Kemper, or his girlfriend, would you please call me? And if you see them, don’t tell them I was asking around for them. I’d like them to be here when I get back.”
She waved the card in the air with her bony hands. “Okeydokey,” she said. “I’m gonna go back and watch TV, if that’s all right with you.”
“Sure,” Duckworth said. “Thanks very much for your time.”
He got back behind the wheel of his car and decided to return to the station. He was still waitin
g to hear back from the hotel in Boston where Bill Gaynor had been staying. He wanted to know whether the man had left for home when he’d said he had.
• • •
Doris Stemple closed the door of her apartment, locked the door, and called out in the direction of the bathroom, “You can come out now.”
Sarita Gomez emerged slowly. “He’s gone?”
“He’s gone.”
“He was police?”
“He sure was,” the woman said, backing into an overstuffed chair that was, curiously, in a nearly upright position. She settled herself against the cushioning, gripped a small black remote control that was tethered to the chair with a black cord, touched a button, and the piece of furniture slowly descended into its original position, its motor softly whirring the entire time. When it was finished, her eyes were perfectly level with the television.
“Can I use your phone again?” Sarita asked.
“Still trying to raise that boyfriend of yours?”
“That’s right.”
“Okay, that’s fine. Just don’t be putting any calls to Mexico on there.”
“I won’t do that.”
She used the landline, entered the same number she’d been trying for the last fifteen minutes. Marshall was not answering. It kept going to message.
“Marshall, when you get this, call Mrs. Stemple. Please.”
Sarita hung up, slowly crossed the room, and sat down in the chair next to the old woman. She reached over and patted the young girl’s hand.
“Still no luck?”
Sarita shook her head. “Something’s gone wrong.”
“What’s he off doing?”
“Something really, really stupid.”
“Well, that’s men for you. Anytime they do something smart it should show up on that little ticker runs across the bottom of the screen on CNN. That’d be news.”
Sarita took a tissue from the box on the small table next to Mrs. Stemple and dabbed her eyes, blew her nose.
“Must be bad, the police coming around, looking for both of you,” the old woman said.
Sarita said, “Yeah. But I’m not a bad person. All I wanted to do was the right thing. But now that I did it, I have to get away.”
“You don’t seem like a bad person to me. You seem like a nice girl. And thank you for helping me make my bed and warming up my soup.”
Broken Promise Page 29
